


Down We Go

by Twisted_Slinky



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Gen, Helpful Peter, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Manipulative Peter, Season/Series 02, Worried Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 02:25:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13284960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Slinky/pseuds/Twisted_Slinky
Summary: Episode 2x12, "Master Plan." Beat him bloody, then send him home as a message. That had been Gerard's plan, but when his men get tired of hearing Stiles mouth-off, one of them decides to teach the teenager a lesson.Of all the people he would have expected to help him afterward, Stiles never would have guessed it would be Peter. Mostly because the guy was dead last he checked.





	Down We Go

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Assault of a minor by an adult, sexual in nature. Not as graphic as it could have been, but definitely triggery for some readers, so please heed this warning. Also, bigots.
> 
> HC Bingo prompt "Assault."

There were a hundred things Stiles wanted to say, and the metallic taste in his mouth wasn't from biting his tongue. The split in his lip and the small cut in his inner cheek were still bleeding, trickling down his throat, leaving him nauseated every time the SUV hit a pothole. It served as a decent constant reminder of what had just happened. A good reminder of why he _should_ be biting his tongue if he had any sense of self-preservation at all.

He wondered if, maybe, he'd paid more attention to that taste, focused on it instead of the voice screaming in the back of his mind, things might have turned out differently.

"Guess Gerard doesn't want you two dimwits getting in the way of his plan."

It was a random thought, one that Stiles hadn't needed to share, but it just slipped out, a small drop of blood leaving with it and sliding down the curve of his chin. He blotted at it with the damp hand towel the old man had thrown his way.

_"Clean yourself up,_ " Gerard had said, his tone not nearly as hostile as it had been earlier. He'd sounded like he was telling Stiles to wash up before dinner. Stiles had held on to the rag as he'd been led back up the from the basement and into the Argents' garage, as if a piece of terry cloth was going to help him, serve as some sort of evidence he could use to put Gerard away. Even then, though, before he'd even left that house, he'd already known he wasn't going to say a word to any one about what had actually happened.

"What did you say?"

For a second, he'd thought the two up front hadn't heard him. And wasn't that another punch to the face? Two armed gunmen escorting him back to his house, but neither of them considered him a threat enough to sit in the back with him, much less tie him up. They must have seen the show from the top of the basement stairs, watched as he got his ass kicked by a sick old man.

Stiles wished he could say they were underestimating him, but unless they were afraid of getting the back of their seats kicked…

His thoughts drifted back to that first punch from Gerard, hard enough to knock him flat. It had been such a surprise for some reason.

"Why else would he send two guys to take me back home? It's to get you out of the way." Stiles' brow wrinkled in thought. "Whatever he's up to, it's starting right now. And, I mean, you guys obviously know about the kanima already since you were at the big game, watching the carnage when you nabbed me, so it's more than him being afraid of you finding out he's controlling lizard boy, which I'm sure is already against some sort of hunter bi-laws. What do you think he's hiding from you? Unless you guys are just mercenaries, taking orders."

He cut his musings short when the vehicle took a sharp right turn.

"Rich, what are you doing?" the guy in the passenger's seat asked. "Gerard said-"

"I know what he said," Rich snapped. "Doesn't sound like the old man's lesson sunk in. Bitch is a slow learner."

There was something about the hate in the man's voice that made Stiles want to vomit. When he looked up, he could see the cut of the man's pale green eyes in the rearview mirror, and the rage wasn't what he expected. Pissed and irritated? That Stiles could understand, but the hunter's expression made the urge to get back home all the stronger. Instinctively, Stiles slowly reached over for the door handle. The skid of the tires as they slung gravel hit his ears a moment before his head bounced against the side window, startling him.

It happened too fast. The doors opened before he could act on his plan to make a run for it. Rich was out of the SUV and at his side before Stiles could get a foot on the ground. One shove left him sprawled on his side, his elbow shooting pain up his arm where it hit the edge of black top. He scrambled up to his knees but didn't make it any further before the man had a fist knotted in the back of his Lacrosse uniform, pulling the neckline taunt against Stiles' throat and dragging him further from the road. The other hunter was a thicker man, his face ruddy and clashing with his mousy hair as ran around to Stiles' side, grabbing his tender arm and helping his partner pull the teenager.

An elbow hit his sternum, and Stiles couldn't catch his breath to scream out.

It felt like he'd barely had time to blink, but he managed to process where they were, or, more noticeably, where they weren't. They weren't on a populated road. One turn had been all it had taken to put them closer to the quiet, looming woods of the preserve and further from the lights of his neighborhood. The woods. Where hunters enjoyed filling their prey with bullets and arrows; Stiles didn't think his panic could get any worse, but that realization left his his ears ringing from the hum of his heartbeat.

He could barely hear what they were saying, the red-faced guy looking nervous and Rich looking oddly calm as he spat something at Stiles. A second later, they let Stiles fall to the dew-damp earth, and the handgun Rich was holding caught the moonlight just right.

Words circled, some of them from Stiles' own mouth. "You're supposed to take me home. He said."

It sounded weak. It sounded like begging, but Stiles couldn't bring himself to care.

"Shut it up," Rich said. "It doesn't need to talk."

Stiles blinked at him, confused, before he realized that he was the "it," and the other hunter had circled behind him. He felt a boot hit him square in the back, and he collided with the ground stomach-first. The man grabbed Stiles' wrists, pinning them against his spine with one knee. Hands free, the hunter pinched Stiles' jaw until his mouth opened and shoved in a dusty wad of cloth. The towel, Stiles realized, trying to spit it out, but the man's meaty finger shoved in further. Stiles' body shook with a violent spasm as he gagged on the rag, bile burning at his nose but not quite making it out.

"I don't know about this."

And Stiles thought it was stupid, those words coming from the guy who'd almost broken his jaw.

Rich huffed out something like a laugh at his partner before kneeling down, tilting his head so that Stiles could see just the side of his face. "Gerard was too soft on you. Maybe the old man thinks you can still be useful if your friends end up killing each other, but I know what you are. We all do. Tony and I, we been saying it since Gerard mentioned you. 'That kid's a pack bitch,' we said. See, I've seen one like you before, a werewolf groupie, fucking her way through a pack in hopes of getting the Alpha to give a little love nip. I got to her first, too. Had to teach her a lesson, too."

Rich waved his gun in Stiles' face, letting him get a look.

"See, despite what the Argents might think,"Rich said, "I know the truth about your type, that you're as bad as the dogs you lie with."

Stiles tried to speak, tried to tell him how wrong he was, tried and failed as the rag's scratchy surface hit the back of his throat like it was slipping another inch deeper. He kicked at the dirt, knees digging in. He couldn't do this, not here. He could die here, like this, with two no-last-name minions.

This wasn't the way this life was supposed to end.

Rich sat back up, out of Stiles' sight, but he felt the man nearby, shifting just a few inches, his gun disappearing with him. Rich's fingers slipped beneath the elastic of Stiles' uniform shorts and into his underwear, tugging them both down to his thighs. Stiles' eyes widened with fear as the cool night air hit his backside.

The weight of the man holding him down shifted, but Stiles couldn't struggle, as much as he tried. He felt like he was waking up, like those few seconds between dreams and consciousness were stretching on too long. The panic that had left him flopping like a fish on land had drained out of him as quickly as it had appeared. But, he could still feel it when Rich slapped at his ass cheek, painfully pinching at one side. The sudden cold against his cleft was confusing, too slick and hard…The gun, the barrel of the gun was pressed against his body. Rich held it against him, letting it rest there.

Stiles wanted to black out. He wanted to swallow the rag, choke on it. Whatever it took to escape what was coming.

"Rich, man, you shouldn't." The voice came from above. "If you put in him the hospital, we'll draw too much attention."

_Dad can't find me like this._  It circled, a strange worry. A strange worry that made his eyes sting.  _Dad can't find me like this._

"Quiet," Rich snapped. "I'm teaching a lesson here. Besides, this is nothing," Rich said, anger hardening his voice when he turned his attention back to Stiles. "You think this is dangerous, kid? This shouldn't be any scarier than a wolf pushing into you. When I get done, you're not going to be able to bend over for any mutts for a long time. If you think about it, I'm saving you from yourself, from your own filthy perversions…Just try not to like it too much."

Stiles couldn't feel it any more, the gun, the hands. He wondered if it was over with. Or maybe he was sleeping. Either way, he felt light. Like he was floating. Or maybe sinking in quick sand, since it was getting even darker around him. Down, he was definitely headed down. The moon seemed so distant, even if the howling of the wolves was closer than he expected from this far beneath the earth.

The weight left his back, his arms slipping down beside him. At the back of his mind, there was a nagging thought, that he should be doing something. Something that had to do with that washcloth Gerard had given him. He needed it, didn't he? To wipe his face? His mouth? Clean himself up.

He thought he could still taste the blood if he concentrated.

What was he forgetting to do?

"Breathe! Damn it, Stiles, breathe!"

His throat felt like he'd swallowed coal when he sucked in a cold rush of air. A painful cough followed, his lungs trying desperately to escape through his mouth. Someone held a hand at his back, helping him sit up, even though he couldn't remember rolling over. It took him a moment to recognize Derek's face in front of his, the man's grip on his shoulders the only thing keeping him upright at the moment.

"Stiles?" Derek asked.

Stiles blinked at him, confused by the man's worried expression. Feeling dazed, he looked down at his lap. He realized his pants had been pulled up. Someone had pulled them up, probably Derek, which meant Derek had seen him laying flat, seen what those men were were about to do. Unable to move far, he pushed himself over, away from the werewolf, and vomited into the dirt.

"What did you do?" Derek barked.

Stiles tucked his chin into his chest, not wanting to look up or answer. He wasn't even sure if he could answer without his throat lighting up like tissue against a match, which was fine by him, considering where talking had gotten him so far tonight. It took him another second to realize Derek wasn't actually speaking to him.

The other set of footsteps put him on edge, and Stiles glanced up to see a man, chin slick with dark blood and eyes flashing a vivid, electric blue. The werewolf's claws were still out and dripping crimson. Stiles had thought, for a moment, that he was still alive, but if he was alive, then how the hell was Peter Hale standing in front of him?

Derek must have sensed his fear because the Alpha wolf squeezed his shoulder. "You're not crazy, Stiles. Peter's back….he's different. I'll explain later." Derek's gaze shot back up to his uncle. "Not different enough, though. Those were hunters you just killed. You realize what you've done, right?"

"What you should have done?" Peter replied. "Or do you think we could have come to a peaceful resolution? Admit it, you just wish you could have gotten to them first."

Stiles winced at the low sound of Derek's growl.

"I was busy making sure Stiles was still breathing," Derek snapped. "Or did you forgot about him?"

Peter's eyes lost their supernatural glow. Stiles hadn't quite wrapped his head around the werewolf's resurrection, but he could see what Derek meant, about him being different. Even covered in gore, there was something stable in Peter's expression, something sane behind his cool gaze. Stiles wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not, but for some reason, he didn't feel quite as terrified as his nightmares about Peter Hale had led him to believe he would.

"Yes, it would have been much better for him if the hunters had gotten away and told their friends how the local Alpha saved his pet human," Peter sneered. At Derek's silent glare, Peter rolled his eyes. "I'll dispose of the bodies and the vehicle, but we have pressing matters, unless you've forgotten your kanima problem?"

"Stiles needs a doctor."

No, Stiles didn't, or, at least, that was what Stiles wanted to answer. The fact that he couldn't force out that reply scared him. The ground felt cold against his palms as he pressed down, trying to push his body up. His failure seemed to go unnoticed by the werewolves.

Peter sighed. "Because his very public appearance at a hospital with the rest of Argent's men in town, that won't put him in danger at all? Besides, his condition doesn't seem critical to me."

"He's hurt," Derek said, his voice low, as if he didn't want Stiles to hear him. "We can't leave him alone."

Alone. Derek said something else, something about suggestions, or Stiles thought he did. His mind seemed to hone in on that single word, alone, and how not alone he'd be at home, how his father was probably looking for him. Stiles didn't want to be found, not at the moment.

Alone. Alone wasn't so bad an option.

* * *

When he woke, his wish had been granted. He blinked lazily, staring up at the gray shadows of a blackened ceiling. The moonlight barely penetrated the shattered windows, but it was enough for him to see that he was in a house of some sort. A house that smelled like fire.

More alert, he turned his weight onto one elbow, pushing himself up. His head spun, a wave of nausea hitting him. He bit back the urge to react, closing his eyes to steady himself. He couldn't remember going to the Hale house, if he walked or was carried, if he chose to be here.

The old sofa he was laying across whined when he shifted his legs off of its battered cushions. It was covered in a sheet, but he didn't think it was a survivor of the fire, but something new to the house. New and very used. Derek's favorite brooding chair? Stiles snorted at the thought.

"Maybe you are brain damaged," a voice commented, sounding amused. "Oh well. Shouldn't make a terrible difference, I imagine."

Peter Hale sat only a few feet away, on an overturned bookshelf, one leg crossed as he stared out of the window, as if enjoying the view. There wasn't so much as a speck of blood on him.

"How-" Stiles paused, realizing his voice had come out as more of a squeak. He rubbed at his throat, flinching. It felt raw, worse than the strep throat he'd had a few years back, and the taste of lint was still there, beneath a layer of bile. He heard the crumple of plastic beside his arm and realized someone had left him a bottle of water. Without hesitation, he twisted off the cap.

"Slowly," Peter warned, not bothering to look his way.

The cool water stung going down, but Stiles managed to swallow before letting out a harsh cough. Peter rolled his eyes.

"Since I'm sure you'll only injure yourself attempting to ask, you've been sleeping two hours, after, I might add, you assured Derek you wouldn't fall asleep while we were gone. Failed on that account, I see. You've missed quite a bit while we were out, too. It was all very dramatic. Did you happen to know Scott was working with Gerard? No? All's well that ends well…To me. Derek's still feeling a bit used, I fear."

Stile shot up, waving at Peter to continue.

Peter sighed deeply. "Your friends are alive. Gerard is…well, on his way out, I'd imagine. The kanima is no longer a problem thanks to the lovely Lydia Martin and her uncanny ability to show up at the right place at the right time. Unfortunately, Jackson is alive and a werewolf. I'm sure you'll want the others to confirm as much." He turned, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "After all, I might be lying."

For a moment, Stiles had forgotten who he was speaking to. The murderer, the Alpha. Former, as it were. The guy he tried to kill.

"How…are you…alive?" Stiles asked, his voice gravelly.

Peter blinked at him, them smiled, almost fondly. "You know, you're not nearly as frightened of me as Derek said you'd be. Not to say you aren't afraid , at all, but you're rather adaptive, aren't you? That's a good survival skill, especially for someone who seems to be such a magnet for trouble."

Stiles raised a brow. "What's that mean?"

Instead of answering, Peter uncurled his fingers, car keys dangling from between two of them. "I suppose I'm to take you home. Our new alpha is rather occupied with his betas at the moment, so the duty falls to me."

_Our new alpha_ , so Peter was playing the part of loyal pack? And Derek was falling for it? …Stiles filed that away for later before he stood to follow the man, feeling somewhat disoriented by his change in surroundings. If it wasn't for the sharp pain in his elbow, the ache of his head and back, he'd almost think he was dreaming, laying in bed with a sore throat. A fever would explain how nothing made sense anymore.

Derek's new SUV was waiting in front of the battered porch, looking particularly out of place. Stiles felt bitterness climb its way to the surface. He was far from okay, and, yet, here he was, stuck with a zombie werewolf who'd once threatened to kill him, while his friends, allies, whatever, were, what, cleaning up a mess? Buying Jackson a leash? He knew, logically, that Peter probably wasn't telling him everything, that they all likely had serious issues to deal with, but Derek couldn't spare one of his annoyingly homicidal baby wolves to give him a lift home?

Stiles slid into the passenger's seat, then came to a sudden stop as he started to buckle up, feeling sick again as his anger drained out of him. If any of the others came to see him, he'd have to come up with a story, explain what happened tonight. Especially if it was Scott…Scott would know something was wrong. Scott not being there meant that Derek hadn't told him. That was good. Scott didn't need to know how bad things had almost gotten.

Peter was the preferred choice. Insane as that sounded, even in his own head, Stiles was glad it was someone who didn't care beside him.

They rode off down the gravel drive, onto the main road out of the preserve, and Stiles slid down into his seat a bit, eyes decidedly on his lap as they drove past the spot where the hunters had taken him. Peter didn't seem to notice, humming lowly, contently, as he steered.

"You don't have a license," Stiles noted.

"And, honestly, I'd rather you drive yourself and wreck Derek's car when you black out again, but I just know I'd hear about it in the morning," Peter replied. He glanced at Stiles before turning his attention back to the empty road ahead, a more somber expression on his face. "Those are going to be hard to hide. Have you come up with a story to tell your father yet."

Stiles stared at him, confused a moment before he realized the man had been looking at his face. He flipped down the visor, staring at the small mirror in front of him with a deep frown. "I…The guys on the other team. I pissed them off," Stiles muttered, unable to take his eyes off the mirror. "I was going to say it was just some guys…"

The black eye was already darkening, red marking the abrasions around his cheek and scalp, where Gerard had beaten him, but the bruises that bothered him most were at the hollows of his cheeks, round circles trailing long stripes that crossed under his jaw and left his face slightly swollen. It was as clear as day, the shape of a large handprint. It painted a certain picture, the force needed to leave marks that dark. His father was in law enforcement, had a mind that went to certain scenarios right away. Stiles knew he'd ask, ask why someone had grabbed his son and forced his mouth open like that.

Stiles couldn't explain it well, couldn't say, "It was so they could gag me, so I wouldn't scream while they tried to-"

Even thinking of the conversation, of trying to lie without the truth sneaking in somehow, it made his breathing shallow. "I can't… I don't know," he sputtered.

Peter gave him another short glance. "You can't what, exactly?"

"Go home." Stiles rubbed at his throat again, fingers shaking against his skin. "I can't go home right now. Let me out here."

He couldn't help the heat that flushed his face, left the tears behind his eyes feeling like hot pokers. He blinked and a few spilled out. With a swipe, he wiped them off, angry at himself.

"I don't think I will," Peter said, quietly.

Stiles thought he should argue, but he was too busy trying to breath. He stared at his fingers, tapping them against his pants in count as he tried to distract himself from a panic attack. He realized Peter was humming to himself again, and focused on the sound, attempting to place the song. Something old, something sad. The lyrics were on the tip of his tongue.

When Peter did come to a stop, it was far from Stiles' neighborhood, in front of a quaint line of townhouse apartments. "You need to get your story straight before you go home. Come in if you'd like, or sit here and enjoy your inevitable panic attack. It doesn't matter to me."

Stiles stared at the werewolf as he left, striding up to a door as if he owned the place. Which, maybe he did, since he seemed to know where the spare key was hidden. Stiles scrambled out of the SUV, following Peter in before the front door had even closed.

"How do you have an apartment?" Stiles snapped. "You were dead!"

Peter walked through the living room, toward the kitchen, sparing the inside of the refrigerator a glance. "Yes, I can tell from my lack of groceries. And as for your question, I made arrangements, having very much intended on living after I got my revenge. Thankfully, I wasn't dead long enough for those arrangements to fall through."

Stiles followed behind him. The apartment was furnished, but sparingly so. Peter's taste looked to be expensive, but impersonal, which made a certain sort of sense. Stiles had questions. Numerous questions. Buckets of questions.

"How do I know you're not planning to kill me?"

That was the question that spilled out of the bucket. He swallowed nervously as he watched Peter's back tighten.

"And ruin the hardwood floors?" Peter asked, as he opened his cabinet, rummaging for a kettle. "I'd never get the deposit back then… Oh, our dear, breakable Stiles, if you were in your right state of mind, I'd imagine you would have posed that question before getting in the car with me, correct?"

Absolutely correct, and, yet, Stiles couldn't force himself to make a run for the door. Instead, he watched him a moment longer, then left the kitchen, exploring the apartment absently. It was rude, probably, but Stiles didn't care at the moment. He found the bathroom at the end of the hallway, and locked himself inside it until he'd worked up the will to turn on the shower. The hot water left him ruddy and scalded, but it soothed the ache across his back and torso, where he'd been knocked to the ground, pinned to the ground. He closed his eyes, trying to block that out, and nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Peter's voice outside the door.

"I have clean clothes. Put the uniform in the garbage."

Stiles opened his mouth to argue that those uniforms were expensive and coach would kill him, but he realized he'd already tossed his jersey over the small trash can beside the sink. It had been instinct, to rid himself of the evidence, damn the consequences.

"Leave me alone," he muttered. He knew Peter could hear him, even over the sound of the water.

Not feeling strong enough to stand, he turned the water pressure to a trickle and eased down onto the shower floor, his back against the slick ceramic.

"You're still there, aren't you?" Stiles asked the door.

"Why are you still a human, Stiles?"

The question threw him. As did Peter's tone of voice. There was annoyance there, frustration, and Stiles was sure there was a comment right after the question, one unvoiced but clear: if Stiles had been a werewolf, he would have been able to fight them off. This never would have happened. If he'd made one decision differently…

"If _Jackson_  managed to pester Derek into giving him the bite, surely you could have managed."

"I don't want it," Stiles snapped when he realized that he hadn't voiced a reply. "And I didn't ask for it. Will you just go away."

Peter was silent a moment and there was a slight groan from the wooden door. Stiles could almost picture the man leaning against it. It would be easy for him to break the lock, come in. A part of Stiles knew he probably shouldn't poke the homicidal werewolf, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The bad thing had already happened tonight.

"They thought I wanted it, too. The bite." Stiles cleared his throat. It still felt like he was choking on something. "Said I was a pack bitch, which, no, I'd never heard of before, but, hey, I'm all about learning new things about the hunter/werewolf sub-culture. Though, apparently, I'm not a very good student… They said that I needed to be taught a lesson," he said, his voice tight. Stiles raised his hand to mouth, made a fist and bit down on it to stop himself from screaming aloud. "Why not, right?" he spat out. "That's what you thought, isn't it? When you offered it to me? I guess I must look like the type or something."

Peter was silent. Stiles thought maybe he'd left, went back to his tea. It was getting cold without the water to warm him, but he couldn't work up the will to stand up and look for a towel.

"I wanted you to take the bite," Peter finally said, "because I thought you'd be valuable. I told you as much, I do believe. You'll have to forgive me if I can't fathom why anyone, especially you, would listen to a single word coming out of a hunter's mouth. You're not that stupid, Stiles."

Stiles shook his head, fighting a grimace. "I am stupid, Peter, or I wouldn't have smarted off to armed assholes."

"Hmm," Peter hummed in agreement. "That doesn't change the fact that those walking corpses didn't know what they were talking about. Packs have humans in them, as I'm sure you know, and the majority of those humans don't want to be werewolves. They're friends, family. Allies."

Stiles swallowed hard. "You called me a pet human, remember."

"I'm surprised you do. I also called you a liar when you said you didn't want the bite," Peter said, sounding amused. "I might have twisted the truth a touch. The fact remains that, no matter what you want, no matter what the truth might be, those hunters wanted to hurt you in order to hurt the people who care about you. They came up with an excuse to satisfy themselves. And, in doing so, they allowed me an excuse to rip them into shreds."

Stiles stared at the door, feeling the little jump in his heart rate that he knew Peter would notice. It scared him, how much he didn't care that those two men were dead. It shouldn't have been a comfort, to know Peter had torn them apart, and if his dad or Scott ever found out…well, it would complicate matters. Shouldn't he care if two people were dead? No, he didn't think he should. What kind of person did that make him?

"The clothes are at the door."

Stiles heard footsteps this time, as Peter walked away.

* * *

Peter was sitting at a small breakfast table in his kitchen, leg crossed, sipping at a steaming cup when Stiles eventually walked back out in his too-short charcoal lounge pants and a too-large v-neck black tee. He felt awkward in the borrowed clothes, as if he were invading someone's space just by existing inside them. It didn't help that the "someone" was previously dead. When he realized Peter wasn't going to comment or offer a seat, Stiles eased down into the one across from him, grimacing when the wood hit the bruise over his spine.

"What, no cup for me?" Stiles managed.

Peter raised a brow. "Please don't pretend you actually enjoy tea, Stiles."

"You don't know. I could." Stiles didn't, typically. Coffee gave more of a buzz. However, he'd dabbled in tea drinking after he'd realized one Lydia Martin enjoyed a regular cup. "I mean, I don't. Just polite to ask."

"You're not going to be here long enough to enjoy my hospitality," Peter replied. After a long moment, he uncrossed his leg, sitting down his cup with sudden purpose. "I had a plan, you know," he snapped, suddenly. He sounded angry.

Stiles blinked at him, startled. Instinctively, he pushed his seat back an inch. "Uh, yeah?"

"It was a good plan too," he continued. He sighed, put out, but the movement seemed almost calculated, just like everything Peter did, Stiles thought. "It wouldn't have been difficult to manipulate you into leaving town," Peter said, then raised a hand to stop Stiles before he could protest. "You don't want to be here, to face your father, or your trauma. And that's what you are, Stiles. You're traumatized. I could see it on your face, smell that apprehension and panic on your skin. And you're justified. It would have been easy to offer you shelter, make you feel like you couldn't see your friends, talk you into leaving town while I found a new alpha willing to give you the bite. I'd gain pack and deal a blow to my nephew by taking an unappreciated asset out of the equation. In the long run, I'd even have a sheriff in my pocket…"

Stiles stood up slowly, eyeing the front door. "So much for you being sane now," he said, forcing a short laugh. "Derek didn't ask you to take me home, did he?"

"Oh, please, he doesn't even know about this place," Peter sneered. "But I'm not actually going to go through with that plan, or I wouldn't have told you, now would I? Though, I suppose I shouldn't have told you anyway. But I  _did_ , because I want you to be aware of what my instinct told me to do, and how it differs from what I'm actually going to do with you."

"What…" Stiles hesitated, starting over. He tried to breathe through his teeth, stop his heart from racing quite so loudly, because he could see from the look on the werewolf's face that he was formulating a new plan already. "What are going to do?"

"You're not going to like it," Peter warned, pushing himself up from his chair, "but I'm going to take you home."

* * *

"This is a dumb plan. This makes your crazy plan look less crazy, actually," Stiles noted, as Peter slipped out the passenger's side door, an amused grin on his face.

Stiles had rolled Derek's SUV to a stop at the end of the block. Seeing his neighborhood from here, lit with streetlamps, quiet and calm, made Stiles somewhat nostalgic for the days he and Scott would sneak out too late, circling the block and making a ruckus, being kids. Being normal. Stiles wasn't sure he'd ever really get that back, or if he'd want it back.

"Stiles."

Stiles jumped, not realizing that Peter had walked around the vehicle. The werewolf was tucked in close to the driver's side door, tugging a baseball cap over his head.

"Killer disguise, Joe Average," Stiles muttered, trying to cover for himself. "Did I mention how stupid this plan was?"

"Almost as if it was your plan," Peter muttered. "Now be quiet. I hear your father's cruiser."

"There's no way you could tell-"

Stiles shut his mouth when he saw the headlights from the sheriff department's car at the stop sign a few blocks ahead. Without another word, Peter disappeared into the shadows and Stiles shifted the gear to drive, slowly easing up the block. He'd beat his father to their driveway, but only by seconds. Instead of pulling into the drive, he stopped short, parking on the road. He could see the cruiser up ahead as his father eased past the last four-way stop.

Stiles sucked in a breath. "Now or never," he said, and stepped out of the SUV.

He hear two things at once, the slight hiss of his dad's motor as the cruiser sped up to close the space between them and the sound of footsteps behind him. Stiles chose to turn and meet the footsteps. He met a fist instead.

The connection was a blur. A flash of pain, and he let himself hit the blacktop hard, his injured elbow grating against the stone. Before he could register that he'd bitten his bottom lip again, opening the cut there, a hand was wrapped around face, fingers digging into his cheeks as he was forced back up onto his knees. He could taste it, that wash cloth, feel the ghost of those grubby fingers pushing it into his mouth.

_You're not there._

_It's not happening._

_You're not there._

He repeated the mantra, blinking in shock at the sudden fear rushing over him, freezing him into place. It was like waking from a dream, seeing the bright flash of blue in the shadowed eyes of his assailant.

"The plan, Stiles," Peter whispered.

A reminder.

Stiles nodded against Peter's steel-like vice and the werewolf reared back, delivering another weak blow to the teen's cheek before dropping him back to the ground. From the corner of his eye, he saw Peter running down the block, turning off toward an alley between two houses. There was probably a fence to block his path, but it wouldn't slow him down.

"You son of a bitch!" the sheriff barked. "I'm gonna shoot your ass off!"

Dazed, Stiles laid on the road. He didn't have to fake this part, the wet sheen over his eyes came naturally, before his dad even reached his side. He felt his father's hands on his face, holding him up, patting his head, searching for more injuries, all but interrogating him over the span of a few seconds. Stiles reached up, grabbing at his father's wrists to keep him from taking off after Peter or drawing his firearm. There were muttered words,  _"Dad, calm down, it was just some drunk…" "…Must have thought I was someone else. I borrowed a friend's car…" "…I'm okay, Dad…"_

He couldn't remember leaning into his father's hug, but he found himself there, not wanting to let go. One day, he'd have to tell his father the truth, about the supernatural, about the constant lies. About the night he went missing for hours. But, for now, Peter's plan, their plan, would keep him safe and quiet, and with one foot in the realm of normal.

**Author's Note:**

> Random thoughts: I honestly wasn't sure about the direction any relationships were going here, since I was focused on the h/c aspect. For some reason, though, I felt a touch of Sterek easing in, which isn't typical for me. I'd love to hear any thoughts and comments. This is intended as a one-shot, but there's a possibility of an addition.


End file.
